Cold feet pt 2

The forest lay shrouded in an otherworldly stillness, its ancient trees standing sentinel against the encroaching cold. Arne trudged through the snow, dragging the heavy bag behind him. Bjorn walked alongside, their breaths visible in the frigid air.

The creature they had felled lay hidden within the sack. Its life had been extinguished without ceremony, just another casualty in this unforgiving world. No tears were shed; no eulogies spoken. Death was as commonplace as the falling snow.

The forest seemed to hold its breath, branches laden with frost, casting elongated shadows on the path. Arne's boots left deep imprints, and the snow clung to his cloak like a shroud. Bjorn's gaze remained fixed ahead, unyielding. They were hunters, providers, and sentimentality had no place in their frozen hearts.

Arne knelt beside the fallen beast, his hands stained with the toil of their survival. "Bjorn," he began, his voice a mere whisper against the howling wind, "Share the food?" Arne's eyes narrowed. "We've always done it the same way. Equal portions for all." "Not a single part shall go to waste."

Bjorn glanced at him, his gaze fixed on the snow-laden trees "Times have changed," he replied. "The children—they need more. Growing bodies, hungry mouths. They're our future. Their laughter is the melody that keeps the darkness at bay," he said solemnly.

Arne scowled. "And the women?" His gaze flickered toward the sack, its contents hidden from view. "They've borne the weight of this world as much as we have."

Bjorn's expression softened. "Women are resilient," he said. "they are the keepers of our hearts, they shall eat second we can't afford selfishness."

"But the men—" Arne's voice cracked. "We're the hunters, the protectors. We need strength."

Bjorn's eyes held a steely resolve. "Strength isn't just in muscle," he said. "It's in adaptability. We'll eat what remains, and we'll use every part. Fur for warmth, bones for medicine. Waste nothing."

Arne's fists clenched. He mumbled something under his breath—a silent protest against the shifting balance.

Arne stood, "And we," he said sarcastically, turning to Bjorn, "we shall feast on what remains, on the tough cuts and the meager scraps."

Bjorn met his gaze, his eyes unyielding. "My word is last," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of tradition and necessity. In this unforgiving world, sentimentality had no place. Survival was their creed, and every morsel mattered.

And so, they continued—the silent procession of two souls burdened by survival, their footprints fading into the snow, swallowed by the forest's hungry maw.